


Que será, será.

by suzakukills



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzakukills/pseuds/suzakukills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kasamatsu's the son of a very important mobster, Kise's a model. They meet in france and all they have is 7 days to make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Que será, será.

Yukio has been part of the Mexican mafia for the last five years, easier said than done in every aspect. No one welcomed him in, the only hand that stretched towards him was the one that tried to stab a knife in his stomach amidst ill advice and solid Spanish lessons.

He doesn’t care. He’s doing his job and he is the best at it, no one understands why he’s here, why a complete outsider – and a Japanese one at that, would be part of their family. Yukio never bothers explaining that he’s the Boss’s illegitimate son. Never bothers telling them that his mother – a beautiful hostess and the only one that spoke Spanish in the club, fell in love with a Mobster who made the occasional trips to Japan to deal with the Yakuza.

He doesn’t explain that she turns up dead one day, her body thrown in the busy streets of Shinjuku scandalizing the area, something nearly unthinkable in Japan but more than common by the Mexican mafia’s standards.

So his father gets it, understands the declaration of war and brings Yukio to Mexico and has him learn the business.  Promises him a life full of luxurious trips, fast cars and the most beautiful women in the world – beauty queens and actresses and any woman he could see walking down the street, all he had to do was point and she would become his. He promises his son gold, diamonds, properties everywhere and open tabs in any restaurant he can think of.

He doesn’t stop to explain the backstabbing, the lack of trust from everyone in their cartel or the dangers that surround him. The disappearing members that will show up cut up in pieces around the city or the bodies swung from bridges in plain view. He doesn’t tell him about the dismembered bodies left as presents outside their stores or how looking at someone the wrong way is enough to lose an eye. All of that Yukio has to learn for himself.

His father doesn’t elaborate to his familia why he’s here and no one takes it kindly. They believe the old man was become weak, he’s grown senile. Yukio breaks noses and jaws right and left when they speak ill of him, and his father ends up troubled and disappointed when he sees his own son make enemies for himself and refusing to admit the real reason behind the fight. He slaps him once, in the face, and says in Spanish that it was a mistake bringing him, assuming Yukio can’t understand, but Yukio understands, he’s learned at least that much from his deceased Mother.

His father never mentions it again, and Yukio pretends he never said it.

He climbs up the ranks, starts with the small jobs and shows everyone he’s capable. He’s got no one he can trust, not even his assigned subordinates remain loyal. He’ll always be an outsider to them.  So his Spanish gets better and shooting a gun gets easier, his hand doesn’t shake as much when he pulls the trigger, he doesn’t look at women anymore, they all look like the target figures he uses at practice, paper dolls in 2d. No one’s made of flesh and blood anymore.

He can’t sleep at night, didn’t sleep for more than two hours the first year. The maid notices his lack of sleep and quietly slips some pills with his dinner.  She reminds him of his grandmother, when she was in a good mood, on the right side of her manic-depressive attacks, before she remembered he was the son of a mobster and called him a bastard and his mother a dumb whore.

The maid doesn’t care that he’s not from around here, she brings him food and folds his clothes, she always smiles at him, sometimes she says things that sound like Spanish but aren’t quite, his father later explains that she’s from an indian tribe and doesn’t understand a lot of Spanish but gets the commands, a person like her who can’t become ears and tongue for anyone but them is convenient enough.

So Yukio seeks comfort, and his father notices it. After a particular job – almost gone wrong, he allows him, or more like forces him, to hop on their private jet to Paris and promises he’ll find comfort in the Parisian women and the good wine. In the great food and the breath taking sights.

He steps off the plane and lets the driver take him to that five-star hotel in the middle of Champs Elysee, right across the Louis Vuitton Flag-Ship store and the Mont Blanc jewelry one. “Ah, Monsieur Kasamatsu, welcome,” the young French woman from the front desk greets him in accentuated English, and it’s been ages since he heard his own surname.

His father had demanded that he use their family name, as if it wasn’t funny enough to look at a Japanese man in cowboy hat and boots, he was supposed to go by Guzmán. “Do you prefer Japanese or English?,” the woman asks, her green eyes analyzing every part of Yukio, she eyes his Bulova watch carefully and apparently recognizes the Gucci shirt even without any monograms embroidered on it.  “Japanese is better,” Yukio answers, and gives her his passport. “Excellent,” she replies in Japanese and begins typing away in the computer.

The only reason he agreed to make this trip was under the condition that he be allowed to come free of body guards, he promised he would report twice to his Father, once in the morning and once in the evening but he said he absolutely wanted to be alone, in exchange his father said he only had one week instead of the two weeks he had been offered first.

“I’ll have someone take up your luggage, Jean will escort you to the Presidential Suite,” she says and a tall man in his mid thirties grabs the key card from the desk and bows politely before leading him upstairs.

The elevator ride is everything but quiet, the butler making small talk in chopped Japanese, asking how his trip was, how the weather would be  in Paris or how thrilled they were to have him stay here. The man offers to arrange v.i.p. entries to the finest clubs in town if Yukio feels up to it, and he declines politely, dinner for one with some wine is what he’s going for.

Yukio gets changed and decides that this royalty lifestyle is nothing but overwhelming, he already has to act the part back in Mexico. He needs  to have a  low-key stay, he wants a relaxed trip, not one where he has to keep getting waited on. So he loses the Gucci, puts on something he had at the back of his closet – way back when he was still going by Kasamatsu, and sneaks out of the suite, heading into the streets of Paris.

It’s nothing short of spectacular, couples hand in hand, families stopping to take pictures here and there, it’s like it doesn’t even matter that it’s already 9 pm, the street looks as lively as the postcards.

He pulls out his smartphone and looks up a nice restaurant, one with dim lighting and no Michelin stars, the kind you’d run into while getting lost in Paris. He finds it and sets the gps, preferring to walk there, to take in the cold breeze that betrays the spring time, making it seem like they’re stuck in winter.

They had warned him that English was useless here, Parisians refused to convert, so he’d looked up some basic French. He never expected a Japanese man would open the door to the small restaurant, hidden in a small alley in between two intersections. The tall man  gave him a sideways smile, his bangs covering his left eye, a beauty mark adorning his right cheekbone, almost under his right eye. “Welcome,” he spoke in French, Yukio became unsure if he was Japanese, perhaps a second generation French. “Table for one,” Yukio managed, looking back at his phone to try and get the pronunciation right.

“Are you perhaps Japanese?,” the man asked in French and grabbed a Menu from the entry. “Yes,” Yukio answered and looked relieved that the host might be too. “Ah, I see, My name is Tatsuya, welcome to Lilac, table for one, correct?,” he asked, this time in Japanese and lead him inside.

He gave him a table at the back of the restaurant, a cozy corner with barely any lighting, it was hard to see the faces of the rest of the patrons, the murmuring conversations drowned by the sound of a sad violin. “Our Chef is Japanese as well, please enjoy our menu,” Tatsuya said and left the menu in front of Yukio, disappearing as fast as he appeared.

“French restaurant run by Japanese,” Yukio said outloud, scoffing a little as he surveyed the menu, “It’s actually one of the best French restaurants in the area,” a voice interrupted Yukio. He turned around to meet honey colored eyes and a smart-ass smile, a tall man (even taller than Tatsuya) grinned at him, his golden bangs brushed sideways. Did Japanese in France automatically get a 10 something centimeters upgrade for their height or what?

“I wasn’t doubting the Chef,” Yukio said, slightly annoyed at the familiarity the stranger displayed. “Also, if you don’t mind, I would like to be left alone,” Yukio continued and refused to look away from the menu and meet the stranger’s eyes again.

“You’re in Paris, it’s the city of love, you’re not supposed to be alone,”  The blond chimed and took a seat across from Yukio.

“Please get off my table,” blue eyes angered could’ve bore a hole into the handsome stranger.

“I hope you don’t go around saying you’re Japanese, with that attitude of yours it’s bad for our reputation,” he said and stood up, he didn’t seem upset at all, instead a lazy smile painted itself on his full lips.

“I just want to have a quiet dinner,” Yukio said, shrugging.

“Gotcha, gotcha, I’ll leave, enjoy your dinner,” the blond said and walked away from the table slowly, dragging his fingers across the mantelpiece.

It wasn’t until the blond had left his eyesight that Yukio took a deep breath, stunned at  how beautiful the other man was, almost unable to believe he could ever think such a thing about another man – he’d come close to using that word when he saw the Host, his face and frame were almost about to make Yukio question  himself, but the blond from just now, he was even more gorgeous than half the women he’d ever met throughout his life.

Minutes later, the waiter shows up – fully French this time around, and takes Yukio’s order, who asks him to bring him the special menu they have for tonight and a bottle of wine. He sips away until the food arrives, a spectacular red beef with a thick honey based sauce on top.

The only thing better than the meal itself and the aged wine, turned out to be the dessert – the texture of the mousse was unlike anything he had ever tasted, the way it crumbled into his tongue slowly and the it  lingered just one second too long but left no aftertaste.

He tips generously, and just as he is about to step back on the street and out of the restaurant, Tatsuya stops him, grabbing onto his arm. His reflex makes him turn around and push the host away as he raises his left fist, more than prepared to punch him at any moment. Instead, Tatsuya blocks him, “You left your change,” he begins to tell him, “Here,” he hands him the high denomination bill and Yukio refuses to take it, he shakes his head, “It’s the tip,” he says and his cheeks tint red as he becomes embarrassed at the outburst, Tatsuya however seems unphased.

“You don’t tip in Europe,” he explains and keeps his hand extended, the bill waiting. “Ah,  Alright,” Yukio replies and takes the money from him, he bows politely and turns on his heels. “The food was great,” he says as he walks away without bothering to hear the host’s reply.

As the night breeze touches his face once he’s out In the street, he begins to feel dizzy. The wine taking full effect on him, it had been ages since he allowed himself to drink almost a bottle. Being on his guard constantly didn’t give him time to play around.

The face of the blond flashes through his intoxicated thoughts, he pauses for a moment. Feeling like he can’t walk and rests his hand up against the wall, taking deep breaths. As if things weren’t bad enough with being a mobster, now he’d have to add attraction to men to the list. His grandmother would probably turn around in her grave twice if she knew.

“You don’t look so well,” a familiar voice behind him.

“Are you following me?,” Yukio asked, slowly turning around to meet the blond stranger, a white shirt with a deep v neck and a casual scarf around his beck, his chest visible. No doubt this was a guy. He towered over him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Ït’s not common to meet a lot of Japanese around here, that was a very French restaurant you just walked into you know,” he said playfully and took another step closer to Yukio.

“I like to do my research,” grey  eyes stared up at him, the bright lights from the street lamps blinded Yukio, all he could see was the outline of the blond’s face.

“Do you need help getting back to your hotel?,” he said. “I’m Kise, by the way,” his voice was somehow reminding Kise of that Chocolate Mousse he’d had before.

“I’m not letting a stranger know where I am staying,” Yukio barked, and started to walk away, knowing this was only going to end up badly.

“But I’m not a stranger, I just told you my name,” Kise shouted at him and followed closely behind.

“Just leave me alone, come on,” Yukio growled, looking back at him and walking ahead.

“Look ou-,” the blond’s words caught in his throat as he watched Yukio hit the huge lamp post ahead of him. It was such a comedic ending to their conversation, in a second he was crumbling to the floor.

“I told you,” Kise said, mockingly, but as he looked down he noticed he wasn’t moving. “Hey, come on, you didn’;t hit yourself that hard,” his face panicking slightly at the idea of this guy being really hurt. He kneeled down and shook his arm, but there was no response.

He held his hand close to his lips and waited to feel his breath. At least he was still breathing.

Kise looked down at him, he was attractive no doubt, and even if he was using these plain clothes, he could tell the guy had taste, that watch on his left wrist told the story of a really rich man. He sighed, deciding what he should do.

Leave the stranger alone, lying in the streets of Paris and he’d get robbed in a second. Or fish for his wallet and attempt where he was staying and take him there.

There was no doubt in his mind. “Come on, grumpy, let’s take you back,” he said, more to himself than to him and hailed a cab.

When he did get to the hotel, he was more than right. The girl at the lobby didn’t have to give Kise a second look to tell him where he was staying, she recognized him from some magazine and a commercial. He gave her a secretive smile and asked her not to tell anyone that he was here. At least _Monsieur Kasamatsu_ was starting to walk by himself, even if he was doing nothing but mumbling incoherencies.

When they got to the Suite, Kise dropped him in the bed. He stood by the foot of the bed and placed his hand on his shoulder, giving himself a slight massage, even if he wasn’t heavy, he was not light. Carrying him out of the cab and up the elevator was a task that would probably make his muscles hurt the next morning.

“Now, now, what should I do?,” he asked and looked around the room. Opening the suitcase and the closet, trying to figure out this man. He looked like an average rich guy, nothing out of place. Not until he accidentally kicked the suitcase and as it fell, a compartment opened and a gun popped out.

As he picked up the gun, looking at it closely, he remembered it wasn’t the brightest of ideas to grab another man’s fire arm with his bare hands. He squealed and dropped it like it was on fire. The loud noise made Yukio turn in his sleep. He opened his eyes to find the blond in his room.

“What are you doing here?,” he managed to ask from the bed.

“Eh? You invited me here, remember?” he said, smiling and lying through his teeth.

“No I didn’t”

“Ah, you did too, I can’t believe you don’t remember. You even told the receptionist to let us up, but I think you’ve drank too much,” Kise explained, kicking the gun out of his sight and clasping his hands together.

“But, I see you’re fine now, so I’ll take my leave, good bye now,” he said and waved politely. He headed for the door.

“You carried me here?,” Yukio asked, rubbing his head with his left hand, his forehead hurt like crazy.

“I did,” the blond said as he paused by the door.

“Ah, thank you, then” a minute long pause and Yukio continued, “Maybe you’re not such a bad guy,” he admitted and lied back down on the bed.

Kise placed his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave. He wanted to play around with him, but the gun woke him up to the fact that he had no idea who this man was. He really should leave. He took another look at the stranger sleeping on the bed. He looked so much younger when he was out cold.

“I’ll see you around, _Monsieur Kasamatsu_ ,” the blond whispered and closed the door behind him.

And boy, would he see him around.


End file.
